Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  Dawson sent his fist jabbing out in a hard, straight-arm blow. It thunked against flesh and bone, and the native went down without a sound. Storm’s shadow loomed on the threshold.

  Then he drew back suddenly, realizing, apparently, what an easy target he made. He was hidden from sight now, and his voice rose in an angry shout.

  Dawson groped out through the gloom, felt the soft warmth of the girl’s body, and dragged her closer. He whispered, “He’ll rouse the village. We won’t have a chance then. Got a gun!”

  “N-no—”

  “We’ll get back to the ship.” He pushed her toward the open window. “Scram. Don’t make any noise. I’ll be right with you.”

  Loretta obeyed. Her feet thumped softly on the ground outside. Dawson hesitated, listening to Storm’s hoarse breathing beyond the threshold. He felt an inclination to plant his fist on the red-haired giant’s jaw, but realized the futility of the gesture. Storm was armed; he wasn’t. And the first thing was to get Loretta safely back to the ship.

  So he went out the window, and a bullet skimmed along his ribs. Another shot went wild. The girl was a half-seen wraith in the moonlight, and he ran toward her, his back crawling with the expectation of a bullet better aimed.

  Behind him he heard Storm cursing, and the thud-thud of racing naked feet.

  He found Loretta’s arm, gripped it, dragged her forward. She gasped, “This—this isn’t the way—”

  “We’ll circle. Storm will try to cut us off.”

  The jungle swallowed them. The rustle of palm-fronds whispered above their heads. Distantly came the low booming of waves on the barrier reef. Under the trees it was dark, and they avoided the moonlit clearings as they ran.

  Thorns and branches tore at them, ripping viciously at Loretta’s thin dress, rustling with sardonic goblin laughter. The sounds of pursuit grew louder. The girl’s breath came in gasps.

  “Wait!” Dawson halted her. He bent low, forced aside a screen of palmetto fronds, and peered out. The purple darkness of the lagoon was before him.

  But nearer—on the beach—were natives, slipping about like shadows across the white sands. Storm’s bull voice cried a command.

  The riding lights of the Quest were visible beyond the reef. But no hail could reach it. It was too far out.

  “Damn,” Dawson said softly. “They’ve cut us off. They’ll be guarding the boats—”

  “Can’t we swim?”

  He shook his head. “Sharks. We’ll have to wait.”

  “Wait? But the Quest won’t wait!”

  Dawson pulled the girl back. “The excitement will die down pretty soon. We’ll watch our chance, grab a boat, and head out.”

  “Won’t there be guards? You said—”

  For answer Dawson only smiled grimly, his fists balling into hard knots. “We’ll get a boat,” he said at last. “But right now we’ve got to hole up. This’ll do.” They halted some distance back from the beach, where the jungle grew thick. Dawson helped the girl wriggle under concealing bushes. “They won’t find us here. But talk low.”

  THEY waited, while the distant shouts grew fainter. But they did not die. All about them, hidden by the night and the jungle, were men searching. . . .

  “The natives don’t like Storm,” Dawson murmured at last, half to himself. “That vahine girl who came aboard the Quest—she was scared to death of him. So are the others, I’ll bet. But they’ll obey him—they don’t dare do anything else.”

  He glanced at Loretta, lying beside him. Her white shoulders, scarcely concealed by the tatters of her dress, were shaking. Dawson’s lips tightened. It was tough on the kid—running into this, just out of a college in the States. Her brother dead—

  He looked at her sharply. Her sobs were growing louder, edged with hysteria. With soft urgency he said, “Pipe down! They’ll hear you—”

  “I—I can’t help it!” She was shuddering with reaction. Her voice rose. “H-hit me before I scream!”

  Her pale face turned, dimly visible in the gloom, eyes wide. She was hysterical, Dawson realized. Her lips parted, and he clapped his hand over her mouth.

  She started to struggle, shaking all over. Short of knocking her cold, there wasn’t much Dawson could do. She bit him, and he jerked his hand away, grunting with pain.

  She had just started to scream when Dawson kissed her. It was one way of giving her something else to think about. An unusual sort of gag—but it effectively stopped her from yelling.

  His mouth was tight against hers. She tried to pull free, but Dawson held her. And, suddenly, she responded. Her lips were warm, sweet—demanding!

  Bather shakily, Dawson drew back, not wanting to. His eyes strained through the gloom. He could see the girl’s body, scarcely concealed by her tattered dress, the long, tapering curve of her thighs, the rounded cups of her breasts. . . .

  She started to shiver again. Dawson saw her lips part, her lashes a dark shadow on her pale cheeks. A white arm crept about his neck, drawing him down.

  Subconsciously he realized why Loretta wanted his kisses. She was afraid—afraid of thinking and remembering. In Dawson’s arms was a brief illusion of safety, and so she clung to him, trying to blot out the menace that shrouded them by drowning herself emotionally. . . .

  But her lips were sweet. The intoxicating odor of Twit-blossoms mounted within Dawson’s nostrils. He forgot everything but the white, tender body he held so close.

  At last she pulled free, the fear gone from her eyes. “C-can’t we—get back to the Quest now!” Her voice was shaky.

  Dawson swallowed with difficulty. Without a word he rose and slipped into the darkness. When he returned, a grim smile quirked his lips.

  “Yeah. We can make a run for it now. There’s a boat not far away—and only a couple of guards.”

  They moved like shadows to the jungle’s edge. Dawson said, “Wait here. I’ll draw the guards away. You run for the boat—and I’ll join you. If I don’t, paddle for the Quest.

  He skirted the forest, moving along the beach. Then he slipped out into plain view—and, as he had expected, the natives bit.

  They came racing toward him. He waited, seeing they were armed with newas—war clubs.

  There was a piece of driftwood near by, and he picked it up. Then he waited. Beyond the racing figures he saw Loretta fleeing toward the outrigger.

  Footsteps crunched on the sand behind him. He whirled too late. There was a flashing glimpse of dark, shadowy bodies that seemed to rise up out of the beach itself—and something whirled through the gloom toward his head.

  A trap! He had time for only that thought before blinding pain crashed into his brain, and he went down into unfathomable darkness. . . .

  HE WOKE up in Storm’s godown, his head splitting, and lamplight hurting his eyes. Fiber ropes bound him hand and foot. He lay against the wall in a dim corner, tied to one of the vertical beams, and Storm himself was relaxed in a rattan chair, one brawny arm prisoning Loretta.

  The thin dress had been ripped completely off her body, and what she wore under it wasn’t enough to matter. There were dark, angry bruises on her arms and shoulders. Her auburn hair was disarranged, and she was struggling vainly to escape Storm’s grip.

  The giant ignored her. He was drinking gin, and set the bottle back on the table with a grunt. Then he turned back to the girl.

  It wasn’t pleasant to watch. Dawson’s jaw muscles bunched, and he strained at his fetters till they dug into his flesh. But the ropes had been knotted tightly, and didn’t give. He had to watch as Storm, half drunk and inflamed with passion, caressed the struggling girl.

  But he didn’t cry out. Instead, he worked at the ropes.

  Storm said thickly, “Listen, I haven’t seen a white woman for months. Why don’t you be good to me? I—”

  She bit him, and he cuffed her savagely across the face and called her something unprintable, even in Tahitian.

  Then the door opened and Utota, the vahine girl, came in. She did it quietly,
and there was a pahoa—a vicious little dagger—glittering in her hand. Above the top of her pareu Dawson could see angry welts criss-crossing the bronze skin. So she had been punished for trying to escape!

  Storm didn’t see her. He was too engrossed with Loretta. And Dawson waited, praying that the dagger would slide home into the giant’s muscular back before he sensed danger.

  The blade ripped skin and flesh as it lanced down—but it missed its mark. Storm’s arm swept around, and there was a confused tangle of arms and legs. Loretta seemed to be flung out of the melée. The giant reached for her, but changed his mind as Utota’s pakoo drove at his chest. He bellowed with pain and rage. Blood spurted.

  Loretta’s tapering legs gleamed as she raced across the room. Utota struck again. But Storm’s big hand found her wrist. The dagger twisted in midair—and sheathed itself in the vahine’s breast.

  She gave a soft little cry, and went limp.

  Storm sprang up. Loretta evaded his blundering rush and fled out the open door into the night. Cursing, the giant plunged after her.

  Dawson felt sweat trickling down his cheeks. He wrenched frantically at the prisoning ropes. In a few moments Storm would return—

  THERE was movement in the shadows. Utota dragged herself to her hands and knees. The pareu slipped from her body as she lurched forward, blood trickling down her swaying breasts.

  She dragged herself toward Dawson, her glazed eyes fixed on him.

  And fell, with a whisper that faded into silence.

  “The pahoa—”

  Her weight was light on Dawson’s knees. The pahoa! The dagger’s hilt still protruded from the vahine’s chest. And its blade was sharp.

  “Thanks, Utota,” Dawson said softly, though she couldn’t hear him. He strained to reach the knife. And succeeded.

  The ropes bit into his flesh. The vahine’s blood was slippery and warm against his wrists as he sawed the strands apart against the knife’s edge. It did not take long. Once his hands were free, he was able to use the pahoa more easily.

  Feet thudded on the steps outside. Dawson sliced down at the last of the ropes, and, as they fell free, sprang up, his legs buckling from lack of circulation. But there was no time to massage them back to life. Storm stood on the threshold, Loretta struggling in the crook of his arm. Storm’s jaw dropped with amazement.

  His hand dived down, came up with the pistol.

  Loretta’s swift blow struck it aside. The bullet whanged against the tin wall of the godown. Then Dawson was across the room, the knife gleaming, and a savage grin on his blood-stained face.

  Storm made an error. He tried to swing Loretta before him as a shield. But Dawson hurtled forward, diving low, and his shoulder drove hard against the giant’s legs.

  The three of them went backward down the steps, a confused tangle. The gun exploded.

  Dawson felt his left arm go limp, afire with blazing agony. He was flat on his back, held down by Storm’s great weight, and the giant’s furious gray eyes were glaring into his own. The pistol lifted, its muzzle swinging till it was a black hole into which Dawson looked.

  With all his strength he struck up at Storm’s jaw. At the same time he rolled his head aside. The bullet thumped into the ground, throwing up a spray of dirt.

  Storm had jerked up his jaw to avoid the blow. But Dawson’s fist drove against the giant’s throat. Not hard—no. But the keen-bladed little knife was still gripped in it!

  Blood spurted out into Dawson’s eyes. Storm gave a choked, bubbling scream and threw himself back. The pistol went off as a trigger finger convulsed in a death agony. And then Storm lay motionless, staring up blindly into the moonlight, the pahoa’s hilt red-stained, and the blade sunk deep in human flesh.

  RATHER shakily, Dawson stood up, wondering how badly he was hurt. His side hurt, and his left arm was throbbing. Well—he wouldn’t die of those wounds.

  He turned to Loretta, who was rising to her feet, and his good arm went about her as she swayed.

  “I—I’m not hurt,” she whispered. “No—”

  The pad-pad of running feet came. Dawson rescued the revolver and stood waiting. But he anticipated no trouble from the natives. They would be only too glad to be released from Storm’s brutal tyranny.

  Meantime—

  He shoved Loretta toward the godown’s door. “Beat it. Wait for me inside.”

  Then he turned to meet the natives. Would there be any difficulty?

  There wasn’t. Ten minutes later Dawson was inside the godown, and Loretta was bandaging his arm.

  She looked very pretty in the lamplight. Arid, as she said, the Quest wouldn’t pull anchor till dawn.

  There wasn’t any hurry—till dawn!

  THE TREE OF LIFE

  The Red Tree, not knowing what it did, had given humanity to the world. Now it was planning to take back its gift. . . .

  WE FOUND the thing near the Burmese frontier, in the Annamite mountains, after tracking down vague legends for months. What it was I don’t know. A great and mysterious people once lived in Indo-China, and I think their science far surpassed ours. Certainly the Red Tree could never have evolved without human aid.

  The Red Tree—well, that was part of the legend. We were hunting the Garden of Eden. Or, father, the birthplace of the human race. Fables have it that man developed from a marsupial in the Tigris-Euphrates Valley; science has dug up significant fossils in the Gobi. But we were on the track of something different. We had seen quaternary human skulls, far older than the Cro-Magnon, sent to us from the Annamites; and Babcock, our ethnologist, had a set of ancient manuscripts which he said were copied from sources older than Genesis.

  He looked like some artist’s conception of a Martian—shivelled little body, with a bulbous bald head set atop it. At night, squatting by our fire, he would talk for hours on what we might possibly find. His wrinkled, parchment face would light up with intense conviction.

  “Folk-lore has a scientific basis. These native legends—they tie in beautifully with Genesis. All races believe in a super race that met disaster. Well, why not?”

  “Atlantean myths,” Kearney grumbled. He was the boss, a biologist, a red-haired giant with pale, piercing eyes. He was a slave-driver, but paid well. So we weren’t kicking.

  “Atlantean myths,” he repeated. “Such a mutation is ridiculous. You imply that a super race sprang suddenly from Cro-Magnons, and then vanished without trace. Pure bunk!”

  Babcock glared at him. “I said nothing of the sort!” His squeaky voice was annoyed. “There are aboriginal races today. Suppose all civilized mankind suddenly met a disaster—something only the hardiest physical species could survive? In a few hundred years, perhaps, the Earth would contain nothing but savages—Australian bush-men!”

  Kearney smiled infuriatingly. “All right. Suppose something like that happened long ago. Wouldn’t we have found architectural traces—artifacts?”

  “Not if such a community was isolated. It’d have to be, in a world filled with savages. Suppose the most intelligent ones interbred? That’d mean a circumscribed locale. It happened in Egypt, to some extent.”

  “No traces,” Gunther rumbled. He was our archeologist, a squat, swarthy, bearded man who looked like a Neanderthaler himself. He peered through hornrimmed glasses and growled, “They’d have left some traces.”

  “Not if they lived in a world hostile to them. They would have found some safe retreat. Besides—what about Easter Island?”

  “Oh, shut up,” Gunther said. “You’re crazy.”

  Babcock flared up at last. “If you’d taken the trouble to read those parchments, you’d be a lot smarter now.”

  I NOTICED the native bearers were watching us, so I hurriedly tried to pour a bit of oil. This was natural, for I wasn’t a scientist, except in a very minor way. My job was to take notes, and use our cameras whenever it seemed advisable. Later, we’d write up my notes, and bring them out in book form, back in the States. If we got enough film footage, Hollywood might
be interested. So I had to keep my eyes open.

  However, shooting a fight among the members of the party wasn’t in the cards. “Where’s Westerly?” I asked. “Haven’t seen him for hours. Do you think—”

  Kearney moved his broad shoulders impatiently. “The devil with him. He’s hitting the pipe, I suppose. But he knows enough to taper off after a while. We’ve got a long march tomorrow.”

  Inwardly, I wasn’t so sure. We had picked up Westerly in Saigon. He had been recommended as one of the best guides in the business. Maybe so—but my own field, in a small way, was psychology. I classified Westerly as a schizoid, extremely neurotic, and, I thought, mentally unstable. Also, he smoked opium steadily. A half-breed, he was the sort of man who couldn’t be trusted with a gun—for he’d fire at a shadow.

  Babcock ignored me completely. “Ever heard of mutations, Gunther?”

  The squat man tugged at his beard. “So what?”

  “This lost race could have been a mutation—the interbred result of one. Just use logic, for God’s sake! Such a tribe would advance beyond its neighboring ones. Better agricultural methods. They’d have treasures, food, clothing. Other tribes would raid it. The mutations would have to find a safe place—”

  “Here in Indo-China,” Gunther grinned.

  “These ranges have never been explored. The natives stay away from certain parts. I’ve questioned some of them. They say the wild animals are tame there, and that—something—lives beyond. They don’t know what. When they find themselves in that part of the country, they get out, mao! Damn quick!”

  “I expect to find a few fossils, at best,” Babcock remarked. “Maybe a carving or two.”

  JUST then Westerly joined us. He was a thin, gaunt man, skeletal and hollow-eyed, with sagging hollows in his cheeks. He stood by the fires, watching us silently, his eyes very bright.

  “What’s up?” Kearney asked.

  “The boys. They won’t stick. I’ve a hunch they’ll desert pretty soon.”